


Long Day's Journey Into Night

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Conversations, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10868760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: He had made it in time, but still had been too late





	1. Chapter 1

When Jedediah Foster got off the stagecoach on that obscenely sunny October afternoon, he was greeted by Matron Brannan. “Doctor Foster…. Welcome back.”

He had nodded at her, taking in her black armband, the concern in her face, and to his surprise, she had embraced him. “My poor boy… I am so sorry. We all are.”

He hadn’t moved, only nodded again. “Yes, well… it is what it is.” She had pulled away and looked worriedly at him, and he had stared back, expressionless. “It’s been a long journey, Matron. I will be resting in my room. Please excuse me.”

And with that, he had collected his bags and entered Mansion House.


	2. Chapter 2

I had made it in time, but I had been too late.

After weeks of ill-advised medical treatment, confinement, and loneliness, the disease had progressed too much for me to be able to reverse it. Despite my best efforts, I felt her slipping away with every hour. She fought valiantly to remain with me, her eyes bright from the fever and joy of us being finally reunited, but there just was not enough strength left in her to rally back to health. Her mind would slip in and out of reality, confusing me with her father or husband, asking me questions I didn’t understand or for which I knew not the answer.

In the end, all I could do was hold her, stroke her hair, and try to absorb her whole being into mine. “Mary… hold on for one more day… I just know it, one more day and you’ll be on the mend. The damn calomel… you’ll see, you’ll feel better soon, it’s just a matter of days. ”

She had looked up at me then. “Jed,” she beamed, and my heart burst to finally be recognized. “Yes, Mary, it’s me. I’m right here.”

“I’m glad of it,” she said, and I saw how much she meant it. “I wrote you a letter. Please ask Agnes to give it to you.”

I scoffed and shook my head. “You can give it to me yourself tomorrow. Or better yet, tell me about it when you’re better.”

“Jed, please,” she sighed. “Read the letter. Promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”

I didn’t understand. “Foolish? Why would I do something foolish?”

“Because you’re Jedediah Foster and reckless behavior is not unknown to you,” she scolded, weary. “Please, promise me.”

I held her hand tightly, gazing deep into her anxious, exhausted eyes. “Of course, I promise. Anything you want from me, you will have. Just hold on.”

The worry had eased up a bit, and the corner of her mouth curled up somewhat. “A kiss?”

I smiled sadly at her, broken-hearted that she had to make this request. I brushed her lips with my own in the lightest caress, before pressing gently down to kiss her fully. She returned it with what little strength remained, but with an insistence that troubled me. When I pulled away, she sighed, ran her fingertips along my jawline, and then nestled tighter in my embrace. “Good night, Jed,” she whispered, telling me tonight’s talk was at an end. I cradled her closer, clasping her hand against my heart, and slowly, peacefully, we both fell asleep.

The next morning, only I woke up.


	3. Chapter 3

“All set, Private Scott,” smiled Emma Green as she finished dressing the young soldier’s leg. “It’s looking much better already”.

The private returned her smile. “Thanks to your good care, Nurse Emma,” he replied. “It barely hurts anymore. I’ll be up and back to killing Yanks before you know it!” The thought thrilled her immensely less than it once would have, but she didn’t let it show to keep the man’s spirits up.

Her mind was taken out of these unpleasant images by approaching soft footsteps, and she did not need to turn around to know who they belonged to. There was the lightest touch to her shoulder, and Henry Hopkins’ gentle voice rose up. “Anything I can be of assistance with?”

Scott sobered up somewhat, concerned the Northern man of God had heard him boast of killing his compatriots. “Nurse Emma was just finishing up with my bandages, Chaplain. If I may, I’d try and sleep a bit until supper.”

“Of course, son, I’ll come back later if you’d like.” Chastised, the soldier nodded, and Emma gathered her supplies and basin.

“May I give you a hand with that?” offered Henry, shifting his Bible under his arm and holding out his hands. Dark blue eyes met light ones, and Emma smiled reassuringly at him. “Henry, I’m all right, you don’t have to-“

They were interrupted by Matron Brannan’s entry into the ward, brows furrowed, hands on her hips. “Matron, is anything the matter?” asked Henry.

“That’s the thing, Chaplain, I don’t know,” replied the elder woman, gnawing at her lips. “Dr. Foster just came back and headed directly to his room, with barely a word. I could swear there was something off about him.”

At the mention of their colleague’s return, both faces initially lit up, but darkened immediately afterwards. “Well, it’s understandable, considering his long travel to come back here and his recent… loss. It was very hard for us all,” he added with a side glance at Emma. He saw that her eyes had welled up in tears and, unconsciously, her free hand had moved to her armband. Subtly, he reached up and touched his fingers to hers; she started, but did not pull away, and the hint of a smile appeared on her lips in silent thanks.

Not paying them mind, the matron continued pacing. “Yes, of course, I know, but there’s still something that bothers me about it all.”

Emma swallowed back her grief and strengthened up. “Let’s give him time to get settled back in and rest, and I’ll bring him some supper and check on him in an hour or two.”

Brannan nodded. “Right, good plan, that should do it. Oh, old age and young people dying in this cursed war are making me doubt everything... You’re an absolute angel to us all, Miss Green. Isn’t she, Chaplain?” she added with a wink as she caught Henry staring at the young nurse, their hands shyly joined. He flustered. “No, no, lad, don’t answer that, I was just making mischief.”

And with that, she left them, somewhat reassured about Jedediah Foster’s wellbeing, and considerably consoled to see that not all young love at Mansion House was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-approved comments and kudos to anyone who wants to write the previous Emmry hurt/comfort scene that's implied in this chapter! :)


	4. Chapter 4

The wake lasted for four days, and for four days I stayed away. I could not bear to look at this still, silent figure: her always so active, her mind so sharp, her passion barely held in check by her New England countenance. This was not Her. She must be somewhere else. I had taken another shot of laudanum, another bottle of whisky and gone to look for her, through Boston and beyond.

I had watched from afar as the coffin had been lowered in the ground. It was buried next to her husband, of course. Under a tombstone with VON OLNHAUSEN inscribed, BARON and BARONESS underneath. Only the small Mary underneath gave any indication that it was truly her it remembered. And even then, Mary was such a common name; it could have been any other Mary. My Mary must be somewhere else. She should have been under a FOSTER tombstone, but I had been too late. So, perhaps she was with the Phinneys; that would be suitable. That would still be Her. But I never found the Phinneys, so I never found Her.

And now, coming back here, to these wards where we worked together… to this medical supply room where I first rashly called her Mary… to this landing where we argued colors, of blood, of men, on our first night, and despite it all, somehow kissed, many nights later… to this bedroom, her bedroom that she should have never left, that I should have fought to keep her in until she recovered, that is now no longer hers. Who’s taken it? Who could do such a thing? And where did they put Her?

I must look for Her, she must be here somewhere. She can’t be gone.


	5. Chapter 5

“Dr. Foster?”

Emma knocked again. “Dr. Foster, it’s Emma Green. I’ve brought you some dinner. Could you please open the door?” There was no answer, so she tried the handle: surprisingly, it was unlocked.

The room was dark, the curtains closed hermetically. “Dr. Foster?” Emma called again, wearily, with no more success. She felt her way along the wall, finally finding a small table to place her platter on. To avoid tripping, she slid her feet on the floor, at one point kicking a metallic object that rolled off with a clang, at another hitting bunched up clothing or other fabric. She made her way to the window and pulled the drapes open, then turned around to take in the room and locate its occupant.

“Oh no.”


	6. Chapter 6

I had finally found Her.

She stood in my bedroom, back to her former self, standing tall, and glowing: her brown hair neatly pleated, her cheeks rosy, a spotless white apron pinned over her blue checkered dress. She held her hands on her hips, and looked disapprovingly at me as I sat on the bed, clutching her picture, dazed and amazed by the wondrous sight of her.

“You did something foolish.”

I shrugged, helpless. “Well, what did you expect? You… died.”

“Well, what did **you** expect, Doctor?” she retorted, sharply. “I was very ill from a very serious disease for a very long time.”

“No thanks to me,” I muttered through clenched teeth, and hung my head. “I should have saved you.”

Her features softened up at this. “Jed… you did all you could.”

“Like HELL I did!” I shouted as I jumped up, suddenly incensed, and threw the drawing on the bed. “I should’ve never left your side in Mansion House! I should’ve carried you back when that bastard McBurney tried to ship you off! I should’ve come with you on that cursed steamboat! I should’ve killed anyone trying to stop me! I did NOTHING.”

“You did all you could,” she repeated gently.

“NO I DID NOT. I let you go. I let you die.”

She shook her head. “ **That** , you did not do. You still will not. But you must.”

All the anger that carried me disappeared, submerged in unbearable grief, and I walked towards her. “I can’t. I won’t. I didn’t go with you when I should have, but now I will.”


	7. Chapter 7

“What in damnation in going on here?” exclaimed Hale as he entered the room.

“It’s Dr. Foster, Dr. Hale,” cried Emma, opening a window to freshen the stale air. “I found him in his bed, unconscious, barely breathing. Thank Heavens Samuel was close by!”

“What?! But Foster barely just came back! What’s wrong with him?”

“Morphine,” stated Samuel, as he worked frantically to loosen Foster’s necktie and open his shirt. “There was a syringe on the floor and a vial on the table.”

“Morphine?! Why would he-“

Samuel snapped. “Are you just going to stand there and ask questions, or are you going to help?”

The surgeon was taken aback and was about to retort when Foster’s body suddenly convulsed, and vomited forcefully. This whipped Hale into action.

“HAAAAAAAAAAASTINGS!!!” he bellowed at the door, then came by the bed. “Miss Green,” he started, then saw Emma was already at the basin with a cloth, heading back to clean Jedediah’s clammy face. Samuel had succeeded in opening his shirt and had pressed his ear against his cold chest. “There’s a heartbeat, but it’s faint, I could barely feel it at his wrist.”

“That’s a promising start,” replied Hale. He leaned down to Jed’s ear and shouted. “FOSTER! Do you hear me? It’s Hale. Wake up, man!” To the astonishment of his colleagues, he then slapped him: as this did nothing, Hale looked up at Samuel. “Now what? Smelling salts?”

Samuel shook his head. “I don’t think that’s necessary. As long as he’s breathing and his heart is beating, he’s in no worse danger. I don’t have much experience with morphine, much less with too much of it.”

Hale acquiesced. “Right. And if he stops breathing, then…?”

Samuel stared at him, dumbfounded. “Please don’t tell me the extent of your contribution will have been to slap and yell at Dr. Foster.”

Hale crossed his arms. “Well, in my experience as a surgeon, that is typically all that is required to wake them from anaesthesia or shock. And it’s not uncommon for them not to wake at all.”

Samuel glared, sensing his pressure rising. “Well, that _clearly_ won’t be acceptable here, now will it?”

The escalation was interrupted by Emma’s shrill shout. “Samuel, Doctor! I think he’s stopped breathing!”

Both men rushed back to the bed and she moved aside. “No breath,” confirmed Hale.

Samuel listened to Foster’s chest again. “I can’t hear a pulse,” he said, as Emma cried out dejectedly. “Grab his shoulders!” he ordered Hale, as he took hold of Jedediah’s legs. “On the floor!” They lifted his body and placed him down, and Samuel started forcefully pushing on his chest with both hands.

“What are you doing, Samuel?” asked Emma, choking back the tears. “If his heart’s stopped…”

“Not necessarily. I’ve seen sailors revive drowned men this way. Mimics the heartbeat, keeps the blood flowing. You,” he barked at Hale, “When I say “thirty”, you pinch his nostrils, tilt his head back, and blow into his mouth.”

“I **_what_**?!?” the surgeon stammered. “His mouth? A man’s? Who’s just vomited?!! Are you insane?!?”

“Oh, move aside, I’ll do it,” exclaimed Emma as she shoved him out the way and prepared herself to follow Samuel’s directions.

Samuel continued pumping Foster’s chest. “Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty! Now!” Emma did as he had explained, and the influx of air lifted the unconscious man’s chest. “Good, that’s enough air, Miss Green. Do the same once more!” She did as she was told, and Samuel then resumed the compressions.

“It didn’t do anything,” remarked Emma. “He’s not breathing.”

“It’s keeping him alive,” Samuel replied. “I hope.”

“How long must you keep this up?” asked Hale.

“Until he breathes by himself. If you’re just going to stand there, can you at least monitor his pulse?”

At this point, Anne Hastings entered the room. “You called, Dr. Hale?... Oh my God,” she gasped, then regained her senses and quickly surveyed the situation. “How long has it been?” she asked.

“A few minutes,” Samuel answered.

“You must be getting tired. Dr. Hale, take over at the next breath, I’ll check his pulse.” The worried look all three shot her made her eyebrows rise up. “What? I can check a pulse perfectly well!” she exclaimed, irritated.

“It wasn’t you we were concerned about,” Samuel grunted as he continued pumping.

Anne turned her exasperated stare on Hale, who shriveled slightly. “Byron. Watch Samuel carefully. Then do the same. Even a bloody surgeon can manage.”

Rebuked, Hale nodded. “Yes, Nurse Hastings.” He moved by Samuel’s side, and observed intently.

“You have to press the chest down enough. See?” Samuel explained, and Hale took his place as Emma blew into Foster’s mouth once again. “Good, but try to stay faster than a normal heart rate, at least 100 pulses per minute.”

“Oh, like the tempo for _The Battlecry of Freedom_! I love that song.” To their continued bewilderment, he started singing the Union hymn, his rich tenor giving their effort its rhythm, as they worked together to save their colleague and friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the medical stuff isn’t complete rubbish, and yes, did take absolute creative license with Samuel magically knowing somewhat adequate CPR in 1862. 
> 
> Couldn’t resist painting Hale as borderline incompetent for some little comedic relief in this sad story, but the guy definitely gained back some cred and grew on me in Season 2.


	8. Chapter 8

She stared at me, her dark eyes unreadable. I crossed the distance that separated us, but did not touch her, out of fear she would not be real, that my hand would pass through her and she would vanish for good. I stood close enough to feel her warmth, smell her scent, and it was so wonderful that it took all my might not to embrace her. Instead, I channelled it all into putting into words my reasons for searching for her this far.

“I can’t let you go, Mary. Not now, when we were only just… damn it… we were robbed! We should’ve had so much more time together, so much more than that one kiss, those too-few precious moments where we weren’t fighting this damn war or each other over stupidities. Do you know that it was **you** who finally gave me the heart to divorce my wife? That, had she had not agreed, I would’ve still gladly risked eternal damnation to be with you, had you wanted me? Hell, I would’ve sold my soul even just for one night with you! Because I love you, so much more than anything else in this God-forsaken life. I love you… and never told you. I thought there’d be plenty of life ahead for us, but then you were taken from me, and I didn’t do anything to get you back. And you died because of it. I loved you, and I killed you. I’m so sorry… Please, forgive me.”

Her features softened. “There’s nothing to forgive, Jed. It was my time to go.”

“Then it is mine too,” I repeated. “Take me with you. Let us be together, whatever comes next.”

She only shook her head sadly. “Did you read my letter?”

“There was no letter,” I scoffed, annoyed to have it brought up again, my intent ignored.

“Yes there was,” she insisted. “Perhaps Agnes had posted it. Read my letter, Jed, and don’t do anything foolish anymore. This isn’t the way. This isn't **you.** Remember our pact.”

“I don’t know how,” I cried. “Without you, I don’t even want to try.”

“You must, and you shall. If not for yourself, do it for those who care about you.” With a last, tender glance, she turned. I reached for her, but found my legs were welded to the ground.

“Mary! No! Wait!”

In a desperate attempt, I lunged out and grabbed her arm, and it was real; for one amazing, blessed second, it was real, and so was the loving, beaming smile she gave me.

“Good night, Jed,” she said, and she disappeared as the room was engulfed in a flash of light.


	9. Chapter 9

“Dr. Foster? Can you hear me? It’s Anne Hastings.”

Jedediah half-opened an eye and, assaulted by the sun, reshut it immediately. _Not you…_ he groaned inwardly, slowly becoming aware of his body. Everything felt incredibly leaden. He could barely lift his fingers from the bed. His chest was sore, his head throbbed and his mouth was parched. “Water,” he rasped.

“Of course, Dr. Foster. Miss Green, if you please.” He felt a hand raise his head, a glass placed at his lips, and he sipped carefully the cold liquid.

“Do you know where you are?” Hastings continued, gently.

He nodded once and fell back into the pillow, eyes closing. “M… Mansion House.”

“Yes, and do you remember what happened?”

 _Mary died,_ _and I didn’t,_ his brain screamed, and the pain returned; an acute, permeating pain to overwhelm the dull ache from his ribs. He craved morphine’s help once more, more so than ever, but remembered her words.

“I did something foolish. Morphine.”

“Hmm, quite a bit too much of it, too. You were lucky Miss Green came in to check on you and found you when she did. She, Samuel, and to some capacity, Dr. Hale, brought you back. You might have a cracked rib or two, but that’ll heal soon enough,” she explained, not unkindly.

“Thank you,” was all he said. _You should have let me die._

“Don’t mention it, Dr. Foster,” came Emma’s sweet voice. “We’re just glad you’re still with us.” He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to rest.” A shuffle of skirts and the squeak of hinges told him she had left. He waited for Hastings to follow suit, but there was no movement.

“You can go as well, Miss Hastings,” he groaned.

She scoffed. “If you think you are going to be left alone in the near future, I strongly suggest you reconsider.”

Jedediah frowned in annoyance. “It’s not like you’d leave the morphine behind, so what’s the risk?”

“I’ve known people in your situation to be quite… creative.”

He opened his eyes and stared at her. She was sitting in a chair by his side, looking at him worriedly. There was no hint of the superior, ambitious Miss Hastings he was used to dealing with: this was the concerned, dedicated Nurse Hastings he had often seen in the ward, tending the more serious cases.

“My situation?” he repeated, playing dumb.

“I think you tried to kill yourself, Dr. Foster,” she said bluntly, but softly. “Or perhaps you didn’t mean it to go so far and only wanted to numb your grief over Miss Phinney’s death.” She tilted her head to the nightstand, and he saw Mary’s drawing had been recovered from wherever he had tossed it and placed there. “You’ve picked the wrong person to try and fool, remember?”

Her soldier in the Crimea. The one she had nursed back to health, only to be killed in the war. He frowned. “And you were in the same… situation?”

She shrugged. “Well, not willingly; I’ve never been the defeatist kind. But the pain of losing someone so dear…” she looked at him strangely then, as if weighing her options, and then sighed. “I took to drinking, and to the occasional dose of laudanum to numb it,” she admitted, to his astonishment.

“It’s mostly this that made Miss Nightingale dismiss me,” she continued. “Losing my fiancé, then my post as a nurse in a war… it made the pain, the loss, the emptiness worse, which made me… consume more, and a few times, considerably too much. On one occasion where I had combined quite a lot of the two, I was lucky to come out alive. So, you see, we actually both suffer from the same… weakness, although to slightly different substances.”

He studied her face, and saw that there was neither artifice nor deception in her expression. “What made you stop?” he asked.

She suppressed a dry laugh. “For the drinking, I’m afraid nothing ever has, although I’ve been able to keep it down, mostly, with work, ambition and a sense of purpose. The nurse who helped me through that last… episode, actually asked me to work with them once I was recovered, and I did. I kept busy, kept my mind and hands active, and found that if I didn’t stop, I didn’t have time to feel. I worked as a nurse where I could, perfected the techniques Miss Nightingale taught us, stayed on my toes to always move forward to bigger things; at that point, the laudanum just made my mind foggy, and I needed it sharp, so I found I no longer needed it. But the work wasn’t always enough, and there were terrible idle times where I would lapse again. So when I heard of this war starting, of the steady output of patients it would bring, I did not hesitate: I took the first ship out to New York City and made my way here.”

“But that was just the symptom, not the cause of my pain. For that… I had to learn to let him go. Working with so many other patients, soldiers, I realized I had done all I could to save him and succeeded, but his time had simply come. Slowly, I learned to accept it. That no matter what you do, some people will be in your life forever, and some for only too brief a moment.”

“And here,” she added as she took his hand, “I believe is where your problem lies as well. As a doctor, you believe you could have saved her, that you didn’t do enough. You feel guilty for it. But, Dr. Foster… I’ve seen many typhoid cases in my career, and once it spreads to other organs, there is not much to be done. Miss Phinney, her cough… I believe a serious infection had taken hold in her lungs even before she was sent away. Pneumonia, or maybe influenza, as we’ve had quite a few cases recently. Or perhaps she had a serious illness as a child, and it left her respiratory system more vulnerable to the typhoid. But no matter what it was, her cough was that of one condemned, and I think that deep down, you know it as well. So please, tell yourself: you did all you could.”

Jed inhaled sharply. Those words. The same words Mary had told him just now, in his morphine-induced dream, or hallucination… those he had told her himself after Philip Starks’ death, as she thought of her husband’s. Now Anne Hastings was uttering them. He still fought them, refused to believe them, yet they echoed in his mind. _You did all you could._

He swallowed down his growing emotion and fought his raging mind, then looked up at Hastings for a moment. “Thank you, Miss Hastings,” he finally said, sincerely. “For telling me all this. You didn’t have to, but I do appreciate your confidence.”

She only smiled and patted his hand. “You just keep it to yourself and never say a word of it to anyone, Dr. Foster, and focus on getting better. You are much needed still. We can’t afford to lose you.”

He stayed silent, touched by her words, when Mary’s admonishment came back to his mind. “And concerning our shared… weakness. I might require some assistance to free myself from it once more. Mar… Miss Phinney, she once helped -” he began, but could not finish.

“Then I would be glad to offer it,” she completed, sensing his distress. “If you extend the same curtesy back when you’re recovered. I think it’s time for me to be rid of it as well.”

He nodded, relieved. “Of course. I’m sure she would be proud of us both.” They exchanged a small, sorrowful smile, and Hastings let his hand go with a final squeeze.

He settled back down, when a thought made him spring back up. “I’m sorry, but did any mail arrive for me while I was away?” he asked.

A perplexed expression momentarily crossed Anne’s features. “Yes, I think I saw some on the desk over there.” She rose to fetch the packet and handed it to Jed. Quickly, he perused the letters, until he found the one he had been told to expect: the handwriting was unknown, but the address was not. Boston.

Hastings noticed it as well. “I may not leave you completely, but I’ll give you a few minutes in private.” With that, she withdrew from the room, leaving the door ajar.

Jed hesitated for a few moments more, staring at the paper, and finally gathered up the courage to tear it open and unfold the letter. He recognized Mary’s handwriting in the first paragraphs: to see it change to an unknown one down the page pierced his heart, but he pressed himself to read it all nonetheless.

 

_Dearest Jed,_

_This must be the fortieth letter I write you, but the first to be committed to paper. I wish I had the strength to pen it all myself, but will probably not, and so have asked my Aunt Agnes to be my hand. But do know that these words are my own._

_I write to apologize. You did not let me do so during our last meeting, and so I must now. I’m sorry to have called you a hypocrite and a liar. I’m sorry to have said that our kiss was a mistake born out of a temporary weakness. None of this was true. I was angry at the fate of the poor former slaves; angry at our complicated situation; angry that my feelings for you were not in the least diminished by our disagreement on the issues at hand. You were but a scapegoat to this anger._

_You are a good man, Jedediah Foster. You help others, and care for them above and beyond what is expected of a war surgeon. Our views on race might differ, but one cannot overturn such views in the blink of an eye, especially when yours were formed from birth and are still upheld by your family and friends: I was wrong to ask this of you. You have come a long way from our first meeting, whereas I steadfastly remained my own stubborn self, unwilling to concede even an inch on this issue._

_I accused you of hiding, of saying one thing but meaning another, but I was the guilty party. I hid my feelings for you behind my outrage for the Contraband. I said I didn’t care about your divorce, but my heart leapt of joy to hear of it. I called our kiss a mistake, when it had been the first moment of pure bliss I had experienced in months, and the memory of it troubled me for days afterwards, and still haunts my dreams at night._

_For I love you, Jed. Despite myself, and against my better judgement, I’ve fallen in love with you. I yearn for you, for your dark eyes watching me, for your voice reassuring me, for your hand holding mine. And deep down, I believe you feel the same._

_I am still angry. I wish we would have had more time. I wish our one kiss had not been our last. I wish that I could fall asleep ill in your arms, and awaken healthy, our whole lives in front of us. But now see that this will not be._

_I still dream to wake up and find you by my side, but understand why that cannot be, because as I said already, you are a good man, and care for your patients before your own desires and needs. Or maybe you’re afraid of what awaits you here, and I am as well._

_I hope to find peace and acceptance in the days before the last, and I hope you will find them afterwards. Should you not, I only pray that it is out of grief, but not out of guilt, as there is nothing to reproach yourself over. You did all you could, when you could, and for this I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I only make one request: that you honor our pact and stay away from the painless, blissful delusions morphine promises you. Should you be tempted by the needle again, please think of me and the time we fought together to bring you back from the abyss. I may be about to fall in myself now, but there is nothing for you there yet._

_So I beg you, my darling: live your life fully and do not seek the empty comforts you have worked so hard to abandon. Feel, mourn if you must, but laugh, and love, and live for us both, for many more years. Take care of our friends and soldiers, fight for the freedom of the enslaved, and try to find purpose and happiness through it all, as we had found purpose in our shared struggle and happiness in one another._

_I shall see you soon, my love. But, God willing, not too soon._

_Ever yours,_

_Mary_

Jed stared at the sheet in shock. Those words again? But… how? How could the words he had just heard her say in his vision, these exact same words, find themselves in a letter he had never before seen, a letter written and posted weeks before? Could she have really… come to him?

_No. She just knew you, inside and out. She knew you loved her, that you would blame yourself for her death, that you would fall back to morphine to soothe it. But she loved you back._

_And you knew her, and knew her disease was beyond help. You knew she loved you despite it all, that she would say these words to you, and that she would challenge you to be the best man you can be, and rise again from your painful lapse. And that is why you love her, and must not let her down again._

He looked at the last line and signature, which her own hand had reclaimed in one last effort to convey her affection and trust in him. Feeling the grief surge, he folded the letter carefully and wrapped it back in its envelope. Then, placing it by her drawing on the table, he lightly touched her smiling face on the paper. “Good night, Mary.”

The tears he had long repressed flowed from his eyes, and, laying his head down, he finally let himself mourn his loss, and slowly learn to accept it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a short, depressing, floaty piece to explore Mary’s mysterious second letter to Jed and which could also serve as an alternate, sadder Chapter 3 for "For All the Nights to Come" in which Mary didn’t survive.
> 
> It then morphed into a longish writing exercise, as I tried a less linear approach to story-building and played with various styles, voices and points-of-view. 
> 
> After letting it sit for a while as I finished "For All the Nights to Come", it ended up being pretty close to a whole episode, with almost the full Mansion House staff popping in at some point. A potential Season 3 premiere, if you will, had the show not been canc- put on indeterminate hiatus, and had MEW not returned (which was the vibe I got from the whole typhoid storyline). I hope I was able to avoid excessive melodrama in the process, the line between it and "just dramatic and emotional" can be a bit thin.
> 
> I remembered an interview in which Josh Radnor said that Foster was an addict and that in Season 2, he replaced morphine with Mary. With her suddenly gone, I didn’t expect him to be strong enough not to fall back to morphine. Foster and Hastings bonding over their lost loves and struggle with addiction seemed like a plausible, positive conclusion.
> 
> The title is the same as Eugene O’Neill’s dramatic play, which also deals with a character addicted to morphine, coincidentally called Mary (all this according to Wikipedia: I have only read the synopsis and fell on it by complete happenstance as I was researching morphine overdose symptoms). Just thought it fit pretty well.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lo, the day is coming to an end](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10876593) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch)
  * [Joy Cometh in the Morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10929078) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch)




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